


Sensēto

by Neriad13



Category: Dororo (Anime 2019)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, Hyakkimaru POV, Senses, Stream of Consciousness, Unconventional Format, edamame angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neriad13/pseuds/Neriad13
Summary: A story told through five senses.
Relationships: Dororo & Hyakkimaru (Dororo)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lileura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lileura/gifts).



A flickering thing, pulsing with a faint, fading energy, lay in his path. He had sensed others like it before - indoors, outdoors, carried in the hands of strangers, sitting in a bowl on a table, made into a tower so massive that its presence blocked out all else except the shapes flitting around it. 

As a child, he’d been a bit more curious about them. He’d stuck his hand in one once - just for a second - and nothing had happened. After that, he’d lost all interest. They became one more unknown in a world of mundane unknowns, so commonplace that it was hardly worth considering. There’d been a point when he’d gotten used to questions not having an answer.

On the other side of it was a faint presence nestling in the treetops. He tried to remember the last time he ate - before he killed the demon? Before he’d _found_ the demon? 

If he snuck up on it, he might be able to catch it. And even if he couldn’t catch it, he could sense three tiny souls beneath it, unmoving. Those were pebbles that could be eaten and wouldn’t fly away if he got too close.

The two souls that had stuck by him all day turned as he walked toward them - the smaller one effervescent with energy, the larger one still and calm. They almost certainly hadn’t eaten recently either. There had to something big enough to share around here. 

He took a step forward and abruptly drew back. 

It felt...odd. Did the flickering thing do that? 

He frowned at it and tried again. 

A searing pain shot through the sole of his foot. The little soul was pulling him back, he was falling away from the flickering thing, he was clutching at his injured foot…

The little soul shivered with anxiety beside him. The larger one blinked with bemusement. 

He stilled the pounding of his heart and wiggled his toes to be sure they were still there. 

The little soul had dashed off into the woods in the meantime and he felt a pang of loss for having been abandoned so abruptly. Was this it, then? He had figured that the little soul would go off on its own eventually. It was foolish to have gotten attached. No one ever stayed with him that long.

And then - faintly, between the trees - it darted back. He was flooded with relief and slight embarassment. It wasn’t leaving him - just yet, anyway.

It slapped something slimy on his foot. He clenched his jaw and sucked in a surprised breath. It was almost as unpleasant as the flickering thing, but in a different way, which meant that it somehow cancelled out the pain. Once he got over the shock, it was kind of nice.

The little one still buzzed and popped with anxiety. It wasn’t angry, like before. It was more like...how the soul who had watched over him when he was small would get when he was about to do something it disapproved of. 

It cared. There was a little flicker of happiness deep in his own soul.

-

It dripped down his face, seeped into his hair, puddled around his feet, pitter-patting on his skin so gently, so cool and soft. What was it? Where was it coming from? He was staring upward, trying to figure it out. There was nothing up there. Nothing with a soul, silver, green, red or otherwise. 

The question mattered less the longer he stood there, enjoying the sensation of droplets forming tracks down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

-

Everything hurt. 

The wounds where the demon’s claws had pierced his shoulders, the alternating chills and boiling heat that followed, the headache that every single inescapable noise intensified.

He laid on the hard floor, trying to rest in spite of the pounding of many small feet that reverberated through the wood and straight into his ears. 

And then a pair of softer footsteps came near, attached to a clear, bright soul. The sounds coming out of its mouth - they were the only ones that didn’t hurt. He was lost in the gentle tones of its voice. Was it...speaking to him?

His heart stopped when it came close and touched its hand to his forehead. For a moment, every ache and pain in his body was gone. There was only the warmth of its hand, the softness of its skin and then…

It was gone. 

He pushed himself up to a sitting position and reached into the void as it circled through the doorway and left him.

-

He remembered the feeling of the demon’s jaws sinking into his flesh, locking around bone. He remembers being scared, remembers the most terrible sound reverberating inside his own head. After that...very little.

It doesn’t hurt as much as it did then. He can feel his heart beating in the stump. Sometimes it feels like the leg’s still there, like his foot is stuck in the cramped position it had taken in the demon’s mouth. 

Which is true? The sensations that tell him that the leg still exists or the evidence of his other senses?

He reaches out to touch the space his body is telling him that living flesh still exists.

Only floor.

-

Dororo groans as he picks the little soul up, holding it to his chest. It feels like the fire that burnt Mio’s home to the ground. Is that what’s happening here too? Can humans burn from the inside out?

Dororo’s soul is so faint, like…

He stops the thought halfway through thinking it and rises to his feet. 

-

The gloom that has taken root in his soul chills him even as he steps into the warm water. 

He wants to relax. It’s been such a long time since he’s just sat down and done nothing. He wants to splash and play with Dororo and the other kids, but there’s a heaviness in his limbs that keeps him sitting right where he is. 

He breathes in the steam and tries to focus on the warmth of the water. Wet warmth. Nice warmth. Not dry or destructive like…

He gets out of the water prematurely and keeps walking, even as Dororo calls after him.

-

The demon’s blood is boiling as it hits his skin, the difference between it and the cool morning air stark. He braces his bad leg against its head and pulls his sword free.

There’s a figure watching him in the distance. Can it be…? There’s a familiar pattern in the glow of its shape.

It stands up. It says his name. It starts stumbling toward him. 

He stands very still, unsure, after all this time, all these changes, how to even begin to convey a fraction of how he feels. Every single word he thought he knew drips through his brain like water through a sieve. 

It draws close and puts its face against his. He feels the tickle of hair against his chin, smells the ginger on its breath. Its forehead is as warm as the blood on his face.

What is it saying? All he can hear is the rushing in his ears. All he can feel...is happy. Happiness doesn’t need words.

He smiles and rubs his forehead against its.

-

The fire is in him and around him and streaking out of Tahomaru’s eyes. He doesn’t know where the fire ends and he begins. He is the flame catching hold of Castle Daigo. He is the heat in the air, the smoke in his lungs, the sparks that sting his feet. 

All things burn to ash in the end. 

-

He holds Dororo under his arm - an arm made of flesh and blood. Not having to worry so much about balance, about his hand popping off if he makes the wrong move... 

How strange. How beautiful. 

He can feel Dororo’s pulse against his skin, catch the faint wind of the child’s breath on his arm. Dororo’s snuggling against him as Biwamaru hoists them up, bit by bit, with his old bones.

The gloom will always be in his soul, he thinks. It is here, even now, stalking the edges of his every thought. It will follow in his tracks wherever he goes.

But just for this moment, if he holds Dororo close to him and thinks of nothing but the warmth of their embrace, it vanishes into nothingness.


	2. Hearing

He is floating, trapped, bound, surrounded by a prison from which there is no escape. It pushes the thoughts from his head, drowning them out, filling his mind until there is room for nothing else. 

A sadness too powerful to bear emanates from the figure hunched over the spot where the soul with the demon sword fell. That...that _horrible thing_ that has no name in his mind and sets his teeth on edge...is it coming from it?

It hurts too much to think. He presses his hands against the sides of his head and runs.

-

He is racked with chills even though the fire is warm beside him. The pop and crackle of it jabs him in the ears like a hot poker. All the little souls who perch in trees - they squeak and caw and rustle about. The digging ones, the scratching ones, even the tiniest of souls that drift around his head aimlessly - all of them hurt, hurt hurt…

He curls up in a ball beside the fire and shivers.

The little soul sticks by him. He feels comforted by its presence, though the sounds it makes hurt as much as the rest.

-

He must have passed out from sheer exhaustion eventually. He remembers tossing and turning, struggling to get comfortable for what felt like forever. 

The morning is damp and chill and every part of his body aches from sleeping on the rocky ground. 

The noises of the souls around him still echo through the trees - the flap of wings, the creak of it leaving a branch, the tiny skitterings of the tiny souls below ground. It doesn’t hurt quite so much as it did the night before. His mind feels clearer after a night’s rest. The pain of his wounds is duller. It’s a little easier to deal with it all this morning, though removing the piece of fabric the little soul tied around his head is still out of the question.

His head feels like it’s spinning as he sits up. For a fraction of a moment, he considers lying down again but then...he hears it.

It’s a sound like a cool breeze on a warm day. Like the feeling of soft grass on his foot. 

He staggers to his feet, the irresistible sound dragging him forward. The bigger soul who’d killed the demon last night says something curmudgeonly as he gets up, but it’s lost in the draw of the sound weaving like a stream through the trees.

It gets clearer the closer he gets. Even the crunch of his footsteps on fallen leaves and twigs can’t block it out now. There’s a pale silver soul out there, between the trees, so close he can almost touch it. 

It stops when he steps out. There’s a pang of hurt in his heart at the sudden loss. 

But surely if it stopped, it can start again?

The water is freezing as steps in. There’s a ripple of bewilderment through the soul...of worry. Other sounds are coming from it - more like the ones the little soul uses, but softer, gentler. 

He stumbles forward, the uneven river bottom making his steps less sure, his hand reaching out for something to hold onto. 

The soul takes it, steadying him. It’s making those sounds again. Its soul is as soft as the noises it utters. If only he could fall asleep to that. If it was the only thing he ever heard, he’d be satisfied.

His foot slides over a mossy rock in a moment of inattention and he collapses into the soul’s arms.

-

The soul sings as it fades away, so soft it can barely be heard over the pop and crackle of the burning house. 

His own scream reverberates in his skull, blocking out all other sounds but it.

-

The little soul is like a gnat, buzzing around his head. Talking, talking, talking about anything and everything. Most of the time, he understands very little of it, catching a word here, a phrase that the soul had used before, the faint idea of a concept. 

He pretends to ignore it most of the time. On other occasions, he does actually ignore it. He isn’t sure whether the soul can tell the difference, but it does dim a bit if he goes for a long while without acknowledging it in some way. 

He wonders if it can see how dim his soul gets sometimes. Sometimes, he thinks it must. It goes quieter when he’s feeling low and just walks by his side for a little while, letting the sounds of nature fill his ears.

He’s found a sort of beauty in the sounds of the winged souls that flit from tree to tree. Their voices are harsher than Mio’s, but sometimes they sing almost as beautifully as that lost soul did.

\- 

The stone skitters across the rock face, the sound skipping and stuttering in his ears. Where did it end up? He’s getting better at figuring it out. The sound is different, depending on whether it’s nearer or closer. 

He throws one more stone, putting momentum into it this time. The resulting _clack_ is soft and far away. And then there’s an even fainter sound following it. That wasn’t a stone.

The air is getting cool. Is it night already?

He doesn’t realize how tired he is until he takes a moment to think about it. Are the others sleeping already? He hadn’t even noticed them leaving. 

He makes his way to the cave where the small angry soul had led them earlier. There’s not much room inside, with the angry one sprawled every which way and the little one (Dororo. It’s called Dororo. It’s tried so many times to get him to say it) not much better, but he can squeeze in if need be. While the ledge outside is just as hard as the floor inside, it does break the wind a bit. He hovers on the threshold, considering the best strategy for laying down without waking the two sleeping souls. 

But…

There’s an terrible sadness coming from both of them.

The angry one...it’s speaking in its sleep. Its voice is different. There’s a tremor in whatever it’s saying.

He feels like he’s intruded on something he wasn’t meant to find. The soul had been so brash, so volcanic, earlier. But now that he thought about it...no, that core of sorrow had always been there. Barely able to be sensed, so wrapped up was it in anger and bravado. 

He was _going_ to help it. He was going to master this skill by morning, even if it took him all night.

He turned around and walked back out into the cool night air.

-

Dororo is silent. 

The absence of the soul’s voice is a jolt to his senses. 

All the times he’d ignored it, all the times he’d wished it would shut up - meaningless before the chasm of silence yawning before him. 

He tries to say its name, the thing it had so wanted to hear. The syllables slide around in his mouth, coming out stretched and odd and strangled.

There’s a rush of air as the demon behind its wall of fire takes a swipe at him, sending him flying.

Panic overwhelms him as he fights what he can only sense with an unpracticed skill.

And then, Dororo calls to him.

-

He scrambles up a tree, his heart in his throat. Below, he can hear the samurai crashing through the undergrowth and calling to their fellows. They pass him by, their voices fading as they tramp deeper into the forest.

That soul interwoven with flames had called him a demon.

There’s a twinge of pain deep inside him as he hears it say it, again and again, in his head.

-

_You, who threaten the peace of this land, are a demon to us now._

_I cannot save you._

He wakes up in a cold sweat. Dororo is snoring softly on the cavern floor beside him. It feels earlier than it should be for waking up, but he has to move. The nightmares don’t live in the cave, but if he lies still for too long in the dark, they catch up with him, whispering their poison in his ear. 

He stomps out into the night air, Dororo calling out after him.

-

The sound of a struggle calls him back from unconsciousness. It’s like rising up from the depths of a deep pond. Dororo is crying, Okaka has venom in its voice. 

When he breaks the surface of the pond, Dororo is clinging to him. 

He whispers its name and frees a blade to cut the ropes.

-

“There are four seasons, you see? Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter.”

“Right now, it’s fall. In the fall, the mountains turn bright red.”

“But not red like the color of demons, I don’t think. It makes you feel so great, just gazing at it. That’s what you call ‘beautiful.’ I only just learned about it too. You’ll be able to see it someday, I know you will. Not just mountains. Lots of beautiful stuff like the sun and clouds.”

He tries to imagine it, a picture made of words.

-

There’s a sound like the roar of a thousand demons and a rush of heat that knocks him off his feet. 

All sound but the incessant ringing of a faraway bell ceases as the ground is snatched away from under him.

-

They bellow their orders at first - to hold the line, to take down the demon at all costs.

They shriek out a battle cry as they charge him, their souls firm in their resolve.

They scream as he slices them limb from limb, their bodies sucked up into the whirlwind before the sound has time to die in their throats.

-

“I’ve always been losing to you. Always.”

There’s a chuckle in his voice and a matching ripple of resigned bemusement flows through Tahomaru’s soul. The hole in his heart still gapes like an open wound but the edges are less clear-cut than they were, as though it has at last had the chance to begin scabbing over. 

_Tell me your name._

_You, who threaten the peace of this land, are a demon to us now._

_Young Master is heir to the land of Daigo. Its people, its prosperity. He bears it all on his shoulders._

_We have no time left. We must take all of you for the sake of the people._

Their words echo in his head. So much hatred, such hurt, in the space between them. But now...

He says his name and reaches out.


	3. Smell

For a moment, the only thing he registers is the shock of something growing where there was nothing before. And then…

He gags on the air. It’s awful. It’s unbearably awful. Do people live like this? Was this one more thing his lack of sensory organs was protecting him from? They can’t seriously be expected to function in this.

There’s no way he can block it out. His hands are somewhere on the ledges above and the only thing his blades can do is cut his face. He plunges his face into the fabric covering his shoulder and groans.

Dororo is still laughing twenty minutes later when his hands are finally found.

-

Plants were alive. That, he’d always known. They could be killed like any soul and eaten for sustenance like the tiny, wriggling ones he’d plucked from streams many times before. 

But they were inert things. If asked for help, they had none to offer. If stepped on, they made no protest. He’d long been in the habit of disregarding them completely, unless he was hungry and some part of them were edible. But now…

Cut grass had a smell - sharp and clean and moist.

If he crushed a leaf between his fingers, he could smell its life force leeching out of it.

And flowers...

He’d thought that they were only fruit that hadn’t finished growing yet. But the truth was that they were so much more. 

Every single one had a distinctive scent. The tiny ones scattered among the grass, the wild ones growing in clumps beside the road - all delicate, all beautiful, all strange. 

Dororo’s soul flickered increasingly with annoyance every time he stopped to smell another, but new smells beckoned to him endlessly, bringing about wave after wave of euphoria crashing down on his senses.

-

The realization that people had a scent was like finding out what hot and cold was. 

It hit while he was half listening to Dororo complain about something or other, caused him to immediately stop listening entirely and plunge his nose into Dororo’s hair.

Dororo smelled...of salt. And oil. And of something he couldn’t place, but would recognize anywhere among a cacophony of other smells.

The spell broke when Dororo jerked out of his grasp and fell to the ground. He stood there for a second, with his hands holding empty air.

There was something different about Dororo’s soul. But he watched it stand up and satisfied that all was well, turned around to carry on.

-

Sweat, dirt, a waft of dung from the fields - 

The sound was dizzying, the press of bodies even more so. He clung to Dororo’s hand, letting it lead him through the streets of the city.

Something like a flower, but stronger - 

Dororo was jabbering on excitedly about this thing and that. There was too much going on for him to make out more than a word here and there. He was trying to shut out all other senses besides smell. It was least overwhelming. Most interesting.

Smoke, charcoal, boiling fat - 

He came to a sudden stop, jerking his head toward the smell that made his mouth water. Dororo flickered with annoyance as he dragged the child backwards with him. 

Savoriness, richness - what was that?

The soul the smells were emanating from stopped what it was doing and faced him. As the seconds rolled by, increasing ripples of irritation flooded it.

“Do you...want one, bro?”

Dororo’s soul was questioning.

One what?

The soul in front of him snapped something about “a line,” whatever that was. 

Dororo’s apology was followed by the clinking of coins and something on a stick was shoved into his hand. 

And with that they were off again, into the crowd of strange scents and sounds and touches.

-

The soul whose footfalls made no sound was waiting for him. A chill in the air that hadn’t been there a moment ago sent goosebumps prickling down his spine. 

He walked toward it, sensing no hostility within it, only sadness, but unable to shake the feeling of unease that its presence brought. 

It dissipated into sparkling particles of energy as he approached.

He was alone again.

What had it wanted by drawing him here?

He dropped down into a squat and touched the ground. There was something slick mixed with the soil here. He lifted a finger to his nose.

Earth, ash...cooking oil?

He shows it to Dororo.

There’s a ripple of unease between them both.

-

The air is thick and choking. It hurts to breathe. The stench of smoke is overwhelming, all encompassing.

He limps on his makeshift leg, struggling to make it to the lake, Dororo flitting between the trees in front of him.

-

There’s a sickly sweet scent in the air that he can’t place. There’s a bitterness to it too, that sits on the back of his tongue, faint, but tingeing the taste of every breath he takes.

His other senses pick up nothing unusual. Not a sound stirs except the wind. The only life here he can sense is that of the grass and distant trees. 

Far away, senses the faint echoes of human souls. What they’re doing, he can’t make out. He can only hope the one he’s looking for is among them.

He sets off down the hillside. His walking stick hits something hard. He steps over it and walks on. The scent strengthens, becomes nauseating. He holds his breath for as long as he can, takes another, and holds it again.

His foot plunges through the rotting guts of a corpse before he figures out where he is.

-

The inside of the hollow smells of ginger and onions and a complex pattern of spices that he can’t quite identify. 

As the soul who’d raised him washes the blood from his kimono, he wonders if home smelled the same. If he would recognize it, if he went back now. 

If it would still be home at all.

-

The air is crisp and clean here. He can taste the salt in the air. He can hear the pounding of the waves, feel the cool rush of the wind from over open ocean. 

It feels like standing over a great abyss. There’s no way he’s capable of perceiving the depth of the water, but he knows that it must be deeper than any other place he’d ever gone swimming. 

The only thing between him and a bottomless void is a rickety shell of wood and a single oar.

But what he can make out is the plant life of the island ahead. 

He shuts out all else but it and the thought of finding Dororo.

-

Dororo flinches as he lowers his face to its level. Dororo’s soul is buzzing with confusion, relief and more than a little guilt. 

The kid smells dirtier since they were last together and there’s a fishy smell clinging to the its clothes, but beneath it all is the implacable scent of Dororo. 

He rubs his forehead against Dororo’s and breathes it in before he’s shoved away.

-

It smells of iron, hot and thick. It soaks his clothes, clings to his skin, runs down his face in rivulets. He can taste it in the back of his throat. 

The stronger it gets, the more enraged he becomes. The more it spurts, the more he wants to cut it to pieces until there’s nothing left. 

His throat is raw from screaming. His body burns as though it’s on fire.

And then…

Dororo is clinging to his waist. All the terror he’d felt when he thought he was losing Dororo, all the frustration of being so unable to prevent it - it catches up with him all at once and he sinks to the ground in exhaustion, his useless sword arms falling to his sides. 

Dororo takes his face in their hands and they touch foreheads. 

Dororo’s scent mingles with the iron tang in the air.

-

Fear has a scent.

It is bitter sweat, oozing from clammy skin.

It is the waft of ammonia drifting off soiled underthings.

It is the reek of loose bowels.

But all of it, in time, is overwhelmed by the scent of blood.

-

For a moment, time stops. 

There is no fire, no suffering, no death.

There is nothing outside a mother’s embrace.

The smoke is thick, but as he buries his face in the despairing soul’s shoulder, he catches the scent of cherry blossoms.


	4. Taste

There was a ritual the soul he lived with went through every day that he never could understand. 

Sometimes it picked plants and tucked them into its bag. Other times, it caught the little souls that lived in the stream or scuttled along the shore. These were carried in a bucket, which he sometimes got to carry home, if its contents weren’t too active. 

By this point his stomach usually felt as though it might begin eating itself. It was an uncomfortable feeling and one he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. But he was never allowed to eat the souls right out of the bucket or the plants right out of the pouch. Whenever he’d try to or pick one up off the ground to eat, the soul, glittering with bemusement, would gently pluck it out of his hand.

When they got back to the house, there’d be even more waiting. The soul would spend some time fiddling with what they’d brought home - the _why_ , was completely unfathomable - throw it into a pot...and then wait some more. 

Just when he was about to pass out from hunger, it’d finally start ladeling the food into bowls...only to hold his portion back for several minutes longer. It needed to do something special to his. Or maybe it was just playing one last cruel joke.

(he knew this wasn’t true. There was never any malice in the soul while it did this)

The food - minus the minute changes in texture - was the same every day. And exactly the same as if he’d picked it up off the ground and eaten it on the spot.

He didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

-

Here he was, waiting again. 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t just taken back the food he’d caught and been on his way. It was a small soul who’d been the culprit. He could’ve taken it easily and been much farther down the river by now. 

But it had been so excited about what it was doing to the food. There was something sweet about its unbridled sincerity. 

And...maybe it was nice to not be alone for a little while. 

But it wasn’t something he was getting used to. 

All of a sudden, the soul was shoving something in his face. He moved back, unsure of where it was or whether it was going to hit him. 

The soul was laughing at him, he was sure of it. But it put whatever it was in his hand and backed up. He ran his hand along it to make sense of what it was. 

The food. Of course. 

It flaked apart in his mouth as he ate it in a way that was no better or worse than anything else he’d ever eaten. But his stomach had stopped feeling empty at last.

The soul paced around him as he ate, gleaming with excitement. Over what, he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

It was an odd little soul.

\- 

“Mmmrrrrrppphh!”

Dororo, flooded with concern, turned toward him.

“You okay, bro?”

It was a type of flavor he’d never tasted before (though this was true of many things). It was...joy itself. Joy had a flavor. And so soft! Who did that vendor sell to the demons in exchange for the ability to make _these_?

He nodded weakly, swallowing.

Dororo sparked with happiness.

“Good, isn’t it?”

He popped the other half of the manju into his mouth.

-

His arms really were kind of gross. 

Whenever he was holding one in his mouth, he was acutely aware of how it tasted of the dirt he’d thrown it into, of the demon blood it’d been splattered with, of the old bits of food from his last meal still clinging to it. 

He’d become much more careful about keeping them clean. A mouthful of cotton still wasn’t the most pleasant thing to have, but at least it didn’t taste like blood.

-

Okaka’s porridge was bland - just rice and a handful of bitter herbs. No salt.

But he was starving and it was filling, so he ate voraciously. 

It wasn’t until he was nearing the bottom of the bowl that he realized there was another flavor in it. The one that made his gums tingle and had been all but disguised by the herbs. 

He had to tell Dororo. But it was like his tongue had been glued to the bottom of his mouth. All of his limbs felt hopelessly heavy and his head felt like it was going to drift right off his body. 

He was gone before he hit the floor.

-

Though he was not entirely trusting of Lord Sabame, the lord’s hospitality was excellent.

The skin of the fish crunched and oozed with fat as he bit into it. The stewed vegetables had some sort of a lightly sweet sauce on them. He liked the softness of the little bits of tofu floating in the salty soup. And the pickles were deliciously sharp and refreshing after the richness of the rest of the meal.

At one point during the meal, he’d attempted to eat an edamame pod whole, before Dororo showed him how the beans inside were meant to be eaten individually. It was frustrating to do something so delicate with hands that had no sense of touch and he wondered why, if the pod wasn’t meant to be eaten, was it served in the pod at all. 

But then he remembered that most people had flesh and blood hands and usually didn’t consider what it would be like to not have them.

He decided not to let it trouble him too much.

As long as he held his bowl out when it was empty, the rice kept coming.

\- 

Sabame’s scream faded away as he plunged his blade into the chest of the fallen moth. 

Its blood spurted into his face, hot and bitter and strange. For a second, he reeled at the taste, at the shock of what he’d done.

And then the ground was snatched from under his feet.

-

They had not actually been invited to the wedding (he still didn’t entirely understand what it was, though it seemed to involve overeating and presents and some kind of eternal bond) that had come perilously close to being his, but the happy couple had gladly given them their leftovers. 

There was sticky rice with adzuki beans - which gave it a lucky color, or so Dororo said. It was slightly sweet and the salty crunch of the toasted sesame seeds on top was something he was enjoying immensely. The soup was full of savory vegetables and the little cubes of tofu he so liked. 

And then there was the little plate of red and white bean daifuku. The mochi was softer even than the manju and stretched like no food he’d ever tried before when he took a bite out of it. He decided silently that the white bean had a more delicate flavor than the red, but that he liked the boldness of the red better. 

From the next house over, someone burped loudly and this was followed by a drunken cheer.

\- 

Ash. Dirt. Blood. Rot.

Every part of his body aches. His ears are still ringing from the explosion. There’s a ragged cut on the inside of his cheek where he bit it as he fell. When he licks his lips, he tastes the dirt the explosion kicked up, the burnt taste of ash this pit is filled with and…

Something worse.

He feels eyes watching from all directions, dead or alive, he cannot tell. He struggles to move, to pull himself up. His teeth scrape against the cut.

The smell of burning intensifies and the salty taste of blood fills his mouth once again.

-

The castle is still burning up on the hill. The flames have died down, but there’s a trail of smoke arching into the darkening sky.

He watches it as he eats. Someone - he has no idea who (all these faces are dizzying) - salvaged a pot of millet and some withered root vegetables from a burnt out farmhouse. It’s got a nutty flavor, not entirely unpleasant on its own, but everything has the underlying taste of smoke. 

He eats it slowly, methodically. His body has gone so far past the point of hunger that it has ceased to feel it at all. Emotionally, he feels an emptiness that food does nothing to fill. Intellectually, he knows that he has to eat something. 

As he eats, he comes to notice that no one - save for Dororo - is sitting around him. It’s disorienting, not being able to discern emotions at a glance. Faces can hide things that souls cannot. The small group of survivors seems friendly enough. They offer him smiles and pleasantries and what little they have and yet…

There’s an unease in the way they act around him. 

He supposes that he can’t blame them.

When the sun sets, Dororo shows him the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I shucked a ton of edamame at work the day I wrote that scene.


	5. Sight

They look back at him from beyond a veil of shimmering flame. 

A peace that he can feel, even as his old way of seeing fades away, radiates off of them. They smile back at him, calm as a still forest pool as the flames rage around them. The one who looks like the statue in his hand bows their head in prayer. The one who must be Mama points at him through air distorted by heat.

He wants to be in this moment forever. Surrounded by family. Drowning in love. He hangs onto it for as long as he can.

He crashes down the passageway as the fire makes that choice for him.

-

Dororo holds him by the hand, leading him through a barren village under the burning sky. 

He allows himself to be dragged along, numbly, silently, even though he might have found his own way. It’s the same as they’ve done so many times before. 

Except now he can see Dororo.

The child is covered in soot, though he isn’t much better. Their clothes are torn and ragged and their hair is full of tangles. He wonders if Dororo has always looked so unkempt or if it’s merely the result of desperate circumstances.

Dororo is uncharacteristically silent. It feels like he’s holding the hand of a stranger. He feels cut off from the kid in a way he’s never felt before. 

And then Dororo turns around to point out the campfire up ahead that marks their destination. 

The smile is something he instantly recognizes, despite having never seen it with his eyes before. 

He squeezes Dororo’s hand and offers a weak smile in return.

-

The earth is parched and cracked.

What plants still grow are windswept and scraggly. Empty houses yawn like open tombs as he walks past them. The barren fields seem to stretch on forever. 

Even the sky is drained of color. The clouds are grey on grey, mimicking the lifelessness of the land. 

His resolve grows stronger the further he walks. 

He knows he can’t be a part of the lives of the farmers whose livelihood he had a hand in destroying. 

And Dororo…

Had he said goodbye, Dororo would still be hot on his heels and all the demons in the world would not be enough to part them.

He can’t drag Dororo down with him. 

He breathes in the air that still smells of ashes and walks on.

-

His breath is mist in the chill air. 

He breathes out, seeing how big of a cloud he can make, transfixed by his newfound ability to make the invisible visible. 

The snow stretches in all directions - decorating the bare branches of trees, festooning the eaves of houses, dusting the path he walks on. 

If he holds out his hand, he can catch the falling snowflakes and just for a moment, gaze at their intricate patterns before they melt into his skin.

-

His shoes stick in the mud. The path was riddled with puddles from the spring rain, before it turned into one big puddle itself. 

He walks on the edges of the trail when he can, but eventually gives in and accepts the situation for what it is. He’ll wash the mud away when he can and most likely repeat the cycle tomorrow. 

In the distance, he hears singing. 

Around the next bend is a flooded rice paddy filled with people. All of them are smiling as they sing and a few of them are doing little dances as they plant rice seedlings to the beat of the song. A farmer standing at the unplanted end of the paddy beats a drum to keep time. 

There’s friendly jostling as the younger people strive to outdo one another in speed. One of them is shoved a bit too hard and goes sprawling facedown in the mud. When the farmer comes back up, it’s as though the person had been perfectly divided down the middle into light and dark halves. 

The farmer spits mud. The one who knocked the farmer over laughs and helps them up. 

He stands there watching for a bit longer, wondering what it would be like to be a part of something like that. 

When his stomach starts rumbling, he carries on.

-

He can’t stop looking up.

There’s a net of pink branches garlanding the sky above him, each bloom more beautiful than the last. The air is heady with their scent. The light filtering through particularly dense growth dyes everything below the palest of pinks. The air is heady with their scent.

Petals fall from the trees in a gentle rain as he walks beneath them - resting on his shoulders, sticking in his hair, dotting the path ahead. They release even more scent as he crushes them underfoot.

But that scent…

He remembers smelling it before, tinged with smoke. And before that, in the hand of the child who’d plucked it for him when he’d first gained a sense of smell. 

There’s a sadness in watching the petals fall. The slightest breeze knocks fresh ones loose, leaving the branches they came from a little more barren. 

Dororo did tell him that cherry blossoms don’t stick around for long.

-

The sun is hot and the humidity is oppressive. 

The straw hat he bought from a basket weaver in the last village keeps the sun off his neck, but does nothing for the latter. He takes it off periodically to use as a fan and takes frequent rests in shady places. 

A mirage shimmers in the air up ahead. He’s still amazed that such things exist, that something which looks so real can be nothing more than an illusion. False water that taunts the thirsty traveler. 

He thinks on this for a time, his eyes on the ground, the sound of cicadas filling his ears. 

It’s a rusty smear on the path that finally draws his attention. 

He’d seen such things in the past, as he climbed the steps to the Hall of Hell. 

Slowly, his shoulders tense, he looks up across the open field beside him.

The air shimmers over the battlefield, making it feel as though he’s looking at a reflection of something rather than the thing itself. Corpses in unnatural positions are scattered haphazardly across it. Standards he doesn’t recognize hang limply in the still air. 

His eyes follow the path of the smear and are led to the headless body of a samurai, its once fine armor, woven with a subtle graduation of blue cords that might have been beautiful once, but are now covered in dried, rusty filth. 

Briefly, the thought that the corpses might have something valuable on them crosses his mind. He doesn’t know where his next meal is coming from. He’s never stooped to stealing from the living before, but surely the dead no longer need what little they have.

He reaches for the pouch at the samurai’s waist...and stops.

His hand can’t move any farther, no matter how much he wills it.

He bows his head in prayer before carrying on.

-

The air is thin and cold in the mountains, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so invigorated. 

The trees are all on fire, just like Dororo told him once, in what seems like another lifetime. As he looks up, he sees that the red canopy above is in stark, glorious contrast to the crystalline blue of the sky. The fallen leaves form a scarlet carpet beneath his feet and crunch delightfully when he steps in a mound of them. 

When he sees a pile big enough for a human being to sink into, the instinct that he was never able to express as a child comes out in full force as he hurls himself into it. His nose is filled with the implacable scent of fall - something to do with dying plants that changes them - and the swishing of countless leaves fills his ears. 

He sighs and lays back, his hands beneath his head, the leaves forming the lightest of blankets. The branches above move in the wind, sending more of their brilliant burden down below. A puffy cloud, like a ball of cotton, drifts by overhead, catching the sun as it passes.

He’s very hungry, but the pang in his stomach isn’t entirely hunger. 

He stretches out an arm to about where Dororo would be, were they lying together. He wonders if Dororo’s grown since then. If there’d be a time when the kid was too tall for him to rest an arm on their head. 

He hopes Dororo is eating better than him, wherever they went.

-

The freezing wind rattles the shutters of the monastery, whistling as it finds a new gap through which to suck out heat. 

He stands up, stretches - something in his back pops and he feels instantly better (reading is something that takes more of physical toll than he thought it would) - and walks over to the window to stuff another rag into the gap. 

The priest glances up as he passes and then goes back to his work. He catches sight of the priest’s calligraphy on his return trip, gleaming and wet on the page.

After he’d settled back into his seat (still warm) and arranged the blanket around his shoulders again, he resumed where he’d left off.

The monastery had taken him in for the winter, as a caretaker for an elderly priest - though the priest plainly didn’t share the worry the rest of the monks had for their leader’s health. 

Secretly, he suspected that they’d taken him in out of the kindness of their hearts and given him a job only to spare him the shame of accepting charity. 

He doesn’t mind. For some months now, he’d been thinking about becoming a monk himself. Once, he thought it’d be a fitting atonement to lock himself away from the rest of the world and devote the rest of his days to achieving perfection and helping others do the same. 

But the longer he stayed, trapped in austere walls buffeted by mountain winds, the more he wanted to do something more tangible. Living in isolation, he thought, for him, would be nothing more than a form of running away. What exactly it would be, he had no idea.

The priest seemed to understand this, though they’d never exchanged a word directly saying so. He was asked often about what his plan would be once he left this place. He always mumbled an answer or gave a halfhearted shrug, prompting the priest to go “Wh-aaat?” or lightly cuff him on the ear with an exasperated sigh.

In the meantime, the priest was determined to teach him to read. It had been their ongoing project throughout the long, dreary months. 

He’d come in knowing a little bit, though it was more by muscle memory than by sight. When he’d gotten the basics down in a way that the priest deemed satisfactory, he’d been given a book. 

At first, it was impossible to read it alone. He was asking the priest about something or other every other minute, barely getting any information from the text itself through his haze of frustration. The priest took to rolling their eyes whenever he interrupted their work with another question, but never verbally complained. 

Slowly, it got easier. He’d never entirely stopped needing help, but he understood the story. Enjoyed it, even. 

This was another startling thing he’d learned about having sight - that a person need not be present to see places they’d never been. That he could be transported to a glittering court in a world long dead and become entangled in the intrigue of players he wasn’t sure had ever existed. 

When he looked up from a long session of reading, it was sometimes a shock to remember that he’d never moved from his spot. 

The scroll was reaching its end. He felt uneasy as he approached it and wondered how it was possibly going to wrap up with so few lines left. 

When he reached the end, he flipped it over and unrolled it with increasing agitation.

The priest looked up at the sound of wrinkling paper. 

“Hey. Easy with that. It’s a family heirloom.”

“This is the last scroll!”

“Yes.”

“But”-

The end of the scroll fell off the table and went rolling across the room.

“Where’s the rest?”

The priest sighed and heaved themself to their feet. 

“But what about Kaoru’s lover and Niou’s”-

“That’s it, kid.”

The priest bent down and began rolling it up as gently as though it were a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.

“But...why?”

“Beats me. Maybe there’s a missing chapter out there. Maybe the author died before she could finish it. Maybe she just got tired of looking at it. That’s life, kid. It doesn’t have a clear cut ending.”

He thought on this as the priest neatened up the edges of the scroll. They would never be entirely even. One end was charred with burn marks. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know why.

“Yes, it does.” he protested softly.

“Hmm?”

“Death.”

“Oh.”

The priest tucked the scroll reverently on its shelf with the others.

“Genji died.” the priest continued, continuing to organize the rest of the scrolls on the shelf, “And didn’t his story go beyond his death? To the people affected by his actions...who in turn affect others and so on and so on...it doesn’t end. Not really. Not ever. That’s life.”

The priest turned around suddenly.

“You think that when a person passes from this life to the next, it’s as though the previous life didn’t matter? I’m not talking about karma. The actions one person takes, no matter how small, has an effect on all that follows. One generation creates the foundation of the next. It matters. All of it. Are you satisfied now?”

“Hmm.” he grunted, screwing up his mouth.

The priest gave him an eye roll. 

“Go practice your penmanship.”


End file.
